


Chasing Nightingales

by Marchwriter



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Nazgûl | Ringwraiths, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marchwriter/pseuds/Marchwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interesting errand draws a young Aragorn to the Edge of the Wild and into the company of a dangerous man he believes to be an Enemy spy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Edge of the Wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ingrid44](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ingrid44).



> Written for the Ardor in August 2012 Fic Exchange. Features Aragorn and Haldir though not part of the Invictus series.

**Author's Notes:** For the Ardor in August Fic Exchange 2012. Thanks to Alex for betaing on short notice.

**Disclaimer:** Just playing with the puzzle pieces though sometimes I feel like all I have are pieces of sky.

An Elvish education had a way of ruining an appreciation for the musical efforts of one's fellow man. The man currently abusing his fiddle before the common room was no Daeron, by any means, though possessed of a peculiar determination to drag his audience with him into some rendition of "The Ostler's Dram." Well-suited for the performer and the place, if in poor taste.

The Stroke of Luck was full tonight with a crowd of regulars, who by now knew better than to persuade him to give up his corner seat. They merely grunted greetings or nothing at all and let him be. On this side of the River, a man's business was his own-particularly in this far outflung village on the edge of southern Mirkwood. Travelers were seldom asked for a name, much less a purpose.

Aragorn liked it for just that reason.

There were few others to recommend it.

The common room's oil lamps cast just enough light to squint by. Just as well for every surface from the panes in the lamps to the benches and tables to the glasses bore the grit of what might have been leftover ash under a veneer of Mannish grease. Women and men of uncertain moral standing rented the best of the upstairs bedrooms. And the food was questionable. Tonight's soup still sat at Aragorn's elbow, bits of cold, stringy meat floating beneath the congealed surface. The innkeeper's cat had vanished the night before.

But its reputation had little to do with its atmosphere and more with its location. As the only Inn on this side of the River, it offered a veritable dragon's hoard of trade, songs, tales, gossip, rumors and information. Information that concerned Aragorn and his friends in Imladris very much.

More than rumor reported that lights had once more been seen on the hill of Dol Guldur since the White Council had driven out its denizens some ten years before. The Wise feared that that formidable fastness was once more occupied by the Enemy or his lieutenants. But the mountains between here and Imladris proved as much a barrier for reliable information as for easy travel. Aragorn, restless and arguably more able to move in the company of Men than those who had fostered him, had agreed to gather the truth of the matter from a familiar in the area, a friend of Elladan's. A rather elusive figure, even in high circles. A Silvan Elf, he was, known only as Merilin, "the Nightingale." Amongst the Tawarwaith, as amongst suspicious Men, names were confidences earned.

Messages had gone forth before him, Aragorn had been assured, to make the Nightingale aware of his coming. But in these uncertain days, fear of interception over the long leagues made the wording of such messages vague by necessity, scarcely worth the sending. More often than not, they simply went astray along with their messengers.

Aragorn had spent nearly three days in the area, listening to conversations, picking up pieces of tales, and watching those who came in and out of the Luck. Though he had gathered a good deal of local gossip and a few wild tales about the forest, he had neither heard nor seen any sign of the Nightingale. Perhaps he'd flown off? Or been otherwise detained? What then? He could not stay here forever. His presence had been noticed by more than the innkeeper, and who could say if others than allies lurked in this inn for much the same reasons?

As was his habit when lost in thought, he twisted the ring on his right forefinger. The ring was carved in the likeness of two serpent's heads, rubbed smooth by ages of wear, encircled by a crown of golden flowers which one upheld and the other devoured. He wore it openly, knowing it a foolish risk but reasoning that it revealed him for an ally if the Nightingale were close. And if the Enemy were close enough to espy it, he was already in greatest danger.

"Evenin', Strider. How's the soup treating you?"

Stilwel, the innkeeper, was a portly man with a very red face full of broken veins and smiles, paused beside Aragorn's favored table as he usually did of an evening. He saw it as a matter of duty that none of his patrons wanted for anything, especially company of one sort or another. He feigned a lack of interest in anyone's affairs, but Aragorn had learned that a flash of silver sparked an amazing memory for details and names.

"Well enough, Master Stilwel, well enough."

"You'll not be leaving us too soon, I hope? Getting fond of us, aren't you?"

"A few days more. Your inn is most hospitable. I find it particularly difficult to pull myself from this fine ale of yours." Aragorn drained his glass and placed it on the edge of the bar. "Might I trouble you for another?"

Stilwel smiled, the creases at his eyes crinkling as he slid the glass off the bar and the coin beneath it into his waiting palm. "Certainly, sir."

When he returned with the pint, they spoke of small matters for a little until Aragorn was certain they would not be overheard.

"I am looking for something."

Stilwel spread his hands with an indulgent smile. "What man isn't, my friend? What man isn't? I've seen that look in a man's eye before. Curse of a long road. I know one or two very fine ladies who would enjoy making your acquaintance if you-"

"Nothing of that sort, no."

"Couple of lads…out of Rhûn."

"No. I am looking for a bird."

"A bird?" Stilwel looked at him as if he had grown wings himself. "I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, sir."

"I hear the forest in these parts is home to many birds whose songs are unrivaled even in the halls of kings," Aragorn said with careful deliberation. "Nightingales, in particular. But I'm afraid, being unfamiliar with these parts, I know not where they roost."

At the mention of "nightingales," the many-creased smile on Stilwel's face faltered, just once, before he hitched it back into a semblance of his former cheer. He laughed. A brittle noise as if something had gotten stuck in his throat.

"Well, Strider, can't say I've ever heard that one before. Fraid I can't help you. Don't keep birds. Too messy." His eye twitched over Aragorn's shoulder.

"Now, Master Stilwel, you mean to tell me you have never-?"

"I said I don't know anything about it." The humor was gone from the man's face, the red draining out of it as if he'd been gutted.

The silver coin rang on the bar, twisting over itself twice before coming to rest beside Aragorn's hand. He picked it up and pressed it lightly against his chin.

A frisson ran the length of his nape, the same sense that makes the hart raise his head a heartbeat before the arrow transfixes him behind the shoulder.

In a corner near the hearth sat the shape of a man, watching him. A man Aragorn had never noticed before. His raiment and low hood was of a color indistinguishable from the ash-stained wall behind him, and the shadows chasing over his form rendered him nearly invisible. He had neither plate nor tankard in front of him. Only a small tin into which he flicked ash from the tobacco stick lodged between his fingers.

For a long span of heartbeats, they held one another's gaze. Aragorn had an uneasy feeling that the stranger had heard or guessed the words that had passed between him and the innkeeper. Every old tale Aragorn had ever heard of Mirkwood loomed large in his mind: how the Necromancer and his servants could snare a man's soul with a prolonged stare, unearth a man's heart from his eyes, its doors and chambers, its most secret desires and fears.

Only when the stranger exhaled a stream of smoke and stubbed the fag end out against the table could Aragorn wrench himself away, unnaturally shaken.

He rose, his legs steady as warm honey, went up to his cramped room at the end of the corridor, and threw the bolt. His quarters were damp and cramped, and he had paid thrice the room's worth, but its costly lock kept out the curious, the inebriated and the thief. He could be alone as he wished.

Sitting on the edge of the pallet he drew his sword, broken a foot below the hilt, into his lap. Even broken it was precious to him. He ran a whetstone over its edges, the rasp of steel and the repetitive motion driving out the fear and the sound of his neighbors engaged in carnal pursuits.

They had fallen into a silence of drunken exhaustion before he had finished. He set the blade close to hand, undressed in the dark, and wrapped himself tight in his cloak. Only then did he let himself drift for a few precious moments into thoughts of her.

The turn of her head in surprise when he had called her by a name of legend, the loveliness of her smile. The touch of her hand upon his as she bade him farewell and to look after himself. What would it be like to know the touch of her lips on his? The softness of her breast? His legs shifted uncomfortably beneath the wool of his cloak. Too long it had been, but he would not take himself in hand. He would not abase her with lust.

Much later, he woke, his legs chilled from where they had slipped free of the blankets. Though there was no noise, Aragorn had the strangest impression that someone stood on the other side.

He rose and eased himself across the room, each floorboard threatening to give him away. But it was the door latch that creaked, a peculiar scraping. Sweat drew an icy runnel down Aragorn's ribs as he took up the shard of Narsil in his slick hands.

Rheumatic steps lurched up the back stairs, followed by the innkeeper's voice.

"Who's that, then? What are you doing there?"

The glimmer of a candleflame slid under his door, and Aragorn unfastened the latch to Stilwel's ruddy, puzzled face.

The innkeeper blinked at Aragorn, the sword in his hand.

"Someone was trying the lock to my room, innkeeper," Aragorn said. "What did you see?"

"Not rightly sure I saw anything," Stilwel said, squinting down the hall, the candle blinding him. "Looked like a black shadow, a bit bigger. Maybe, no more than a cat."

"A clever beast, that then, to try a door with picks." Aragorn pointed to the latch which bore a series of fresh scratches.

Stilwel laughed uneasily. The hand holding the candle was shaking. The other was clutched tightly around something that glinted silvery in the pale light. "Stranger things been seen in these parts. What with the forest so close and all."

"Indeed."

Aragorn fixed him in a stare until the man visibly wilted.

"Your ability to deceive is as thin as your ale, Master Stilwel. I would have a word or two with you." Before the innkeeper could protest, Aragorn seized his wrist and plucked the silver coin from the thick palm. It was his own, taken from his purse, the very one Stilwel had returned to him earlier that evening.

"Who gave you this?" he demanded. When Stilwel said nothing, he squeezed the fat wrist warningly. "Who sought entrance to my room? Why? What price did you name, innkeeper, for the lives of the men under your hospitality?"

A light kindled in Stilwel's eyes, and he wrested himself away with a surprisingly strong jerk. "I earn a good living, I do, Master Strider. Better and more honest than some ragged vagabond out of the wild. If trouble found you, you brought it on yourself and no need to cast blame hither and thither on those as don't warrant it. I've never wished ill on a man before, and I won't do it now, particularly if that man's under my roof. So I bid you goodnight."

He turned and stalked back down the stairs, grunting at his stiff knees.

Aragorn let him go. Morning would be time enough to have a private word with Stilwel. He withdrew, throwing the latch again and testing it twice. But he did not return to the pallet. Instead, he installed himself in a chair beside the door, and there he stayed with Narsil on his lap until grey dawn seeped through the curtains.


	2. Amidst the Thorns

But morning came without any sign or sound of Stilwel.

When he did not come to light the breakfast fires at dawn as was his custom, cross with his guests or no, Aragorn began to wonder. He was missing all through breakfast, the harried serving girls doing their best to run things in their master’s absence. No, they could not say where he had vanished to. No, it was not like him. The inn buzzed with speculation.

Suspicions fell at once on the strange man who had disappeared soon after Stilwel, but none could recall his name, what he looked like under his cloak, or even when he had first come to the inn. Stilwel had made it a point not to ask, and his help had followed his lead.

Aragorn went out to the stables where he found Stilwel’s and another, for-hire nag gone from the stable, but the stableboy had had his head buried in hay when his master and their guest had left and could recall nothing.

The innkeeper’s disappearance might have had nothing to do with Aragorn’s business or Dol Guldur, but Aragorn did not trust to luck. And he trusted even less when the horses’ trail led him up the hill, even to the forest’s eaves.

No one entered Mirkwood this far south, not even for spare faggots. It was a forsaken place even on its fringes. Though he had taken no more than a handful of paces under the forest’s eaves and still stood in bright sunlight, Aragorn was hardly aware of it for the darkness beyond him.

The quiet was absolute. Even his keen ears heard no stirring of undergrowth. No whistle of a bird. No scuttle of a squirrel. No hum of an insect. As if for miles around, the wood was emptied of all living things, but for the noise of water and the trees.

These were dense and rotten, shrouded in moss and fern. They leaned against one another like so many wounded soldiers straggling behind decimated ranks. Though he claimed no Woodelf’s craft, he sensed a thickness in the air about him, redolent of matted leaves and rot, pressing against his face and shoulders. At first, it was little more than an impression in his gut, as of eyes watching him with wary distrust. The further he walked, the more urgent the feeling grew, that something disliked his intrusion, hated him for being a living being in a land that was dead.

Thankfully, the horses’ trail did not lead far into the wood, and marks in the ground indicated they had been picketed—until something had caused them to wrench the pickets from the ground and drag them.

Casting left and right of the narrow path, Aragorn heard the flies before he saw them. At the bottom of the ditch on the right side, a cloud hung over the torn remains of what might have been two horses. There was little flesh left.

He descended with care, sliding in a slick of leaves. He kept well clear of the bodies that looked as if they had been torn apart by wolves. Still there was no sign of Stilwel or his companion.

Casting about the ground in an ever-widening circle, he heard the rope straining, a faint creaking like a tree in winter. It was half-knotted around one of the lower branches of a yew, and Stilwel hung by his wrists from it, his face bleached of blood, his shirt disarranged, his innards tumbling from his belly and hanging in yellow ropes all the way to the yellow leaves.

Someone had stabbed him in the heart, just below the chin with a small knife.

There were impressions in the trampled earth besides his own: deep impressions, not less than a dozen iron-shod shoes had pressed into earth and mud, trampled grass blade and splintered low branches with impatience. Aragorn had ridden too long with the Dúnedain and the sons of Elrond not to recognize the marks of Orcs when he saw them. Still, there was no sign of the man who had accompanied Stilwel.

His right hand ached, and he glanced down with a mild shade of wonder at his knuckles like bone in the dimness, clenched tight around his sword hilt. The ring of Barahir on his finger glowed, and the weight of watching came down so sharp and sudden on his shoulders, he spun about, half-expecting to find someone at his shoulder.

Of course, there was nothing but silence and the trees and what remained of Stilwel. Aragorn returned to the yew and cut the innkeeper down. The body landed with a dull thud in the loam, Aragorn wrestling too much with the rope to remember to ease him down. He covered the man as best he could in loam.

Then with measured strides, he turned and went back up the embankment. He did not run. Nor did he look back until the sun warmed his face again. Then he vomited violently into the grass, wiped his face and mouth of sweat once the tremors eased and headed back to the inn.

\----------

He spoke to none but went straight to his rooms. He would do no more good here. The Nightingale was gone, if he had ever been here. Stilwel was dead. The murderer had seen them in close converse the night before. It would be madness to remain.

He lit a candle quickly and reached for his satchel. It was lying only half-beneath the bed where he had left it. The clasp was unfastened. As he reached for it, frowning, his shoulder blades began to itch, and his neck twitched. 

The door shut firm behind him.

Even before Aragorn turned, the cloaked and hooded man had returned to his seat behind the door, reminiscent of how Aragorn had last seen him in the common room—with the exception of the saber bared across his knees.

“Good even, friend,” Aragorn said as courteously as he could given the circumstances. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Curiosity.” The voice held a slightly rasping note over an accent Aragorn could not place. “I heard you were looking for nightingales.”

“And where did you hear such a thing?”

The man ignored his question. “Such creatures are not easy to find if they do not wish to be found.” 

“What does that mean?” Narsil was heavy against his hip. If he could but…

“Go on and pick it up then, boy,” the voice said, suddenly sharp and snarling, the rasp more pronounced. “If you’re going to threaten a man, do it properly, though if you hold your hand, you might hear something to your advantage, something that concerns you directly.”

Aragorn held himself. The man could spit him the length of his arm ere Narsil could bite him. “I do not wish to threaten you. I do not yet know who you are or why you have sought me out.”

“As to that, usually the one at a disadvantage must needs name himself first. Who are you? What are you seeking? And do not lie. I will know. And things will not seem so well for you.”

“I have told you already. Or, rather, you already know what I seek. My name… Forgive me, but I find it difficult to give it when the man with whom I speak will not even reveal his face as a man should.”

A slight silence.

“Very well. Let us speak as men.”

The man threw back his hood with a toss of his head. The face beneath seemed chiseled as if from stone and, like stone, it was neither young nor old: an arresting face, square of jaw, rather gaunt in the cheeks, surmounted by a length of fallow hair. Burning coals shifted in the brazier, and sparks flickered in the depths of grey eyes, the only movement the stranger made.

A long, shadowy smile climbed one corner of the stranger’s lips. “You are staring. Am I so fierce-looking?”

Aragorn averted his gaze. “I have heard the Enemy could take on fair forms.”

“Are you calling me fair or foul, Dúnadan?”

“You seem to know much of me and mine, yet I cannot say the same for you. You said if I held my hand, I might hear something to my advantage. What is it?”

“You know that Stilwel is dead.”

“You killed him.”

“This man you seek, the Nightingale, did. He was forced to. Stilwel was no mere innkeeper. He knew things that might interest folk on both sides of the River. It was very profitable for him for a good long while, but there are birds other than nightingales in the Luck. And some are crows. They lured him into the forest and ambushed him. The Enemy prefers persuasion to subterfuge. The Nightingale came too late to do more than end his suffering and nearly lost his own life for his troubles. He had to flee. They know much that Stilwel knew. You are not safe.”

“Me?” Aragorn said, alarmed. “What has any of this to do with me?”

“The Enemy has not forgotten Finrod’s ring.” He nodded at Barahir. “Already they have tried to take you once and would have but for Stilwel’s vigilance and my aid. Crows, as I said.”

“Last night, at my door,” Aragorn murmured, feeling the blood drain from his face.

“They are coming, and believe me, when I tell you, you do not want them to find you.”

“You ask much on faith,” Aragorn answered with care. “You say trust you, yet you have not even deigned to give me your name. For all I know, you may be one of these crows you warn me against.”

“A man may lie as easily of a name as of himself. Names mislead. They reveal a kind without revealing anything of the man. True names are earned. You want proof of my good intentions? I have none. But nor do I have surety that you are who you say you are. But as to whether or not you may trust me, if I wished you harm, I could have done so already without so much trouble.”

The man stood, a head taller than Aragorn himself, his eyes glittering hard and fierce. The saber in his hand held low but wickedly sharp.

“Fortunately, I am more your friend than you know.” He sheathed his saber, and his face relaxed in a slight smile. “You may call me Haldir.”

“Strider.”

A pale eyebrow rose. “That is hardly a name, but it will do. Come. We must not linger.”

“Where--?”

Haldir held up a hand for silence. He went to the door, opened it a fraction and listened intently for a long moment. He did not seem to like what he heard for his eyes closed, and his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the door knob.

Aragorn strained his own ears for sounds below but could near nothing. “What is it?”

“The dog has gone silent. Someone comes down the outer road. Horsemen.” Backing from the door, he plucked up the chair and wedged it hard against the latch. “We must leave. Immediately. And by another way.”

Haldir crossed, shadow-footed, to the window and eased the shutters open. He sheathed his saber and lifted from a satchel at his shoulder a coil of silver rope that seemed to gleam despite the dim light.

A suspicion was growing in Aragorn’s mind. He looked at the window, then at the door, and a creeping dread stole over him, quick and cold. The same that had come over him in the forest, only tenfold.

Aragorn snatched up his pack and followed him out the window onto the roof.

Fortunately, it was not a long drop from the eaves to the ground, and the dark hid much of the distance, so that Aragorn felt but a leap in his throat and belly as he half-slithered, half-fell down the rope. Haldir joined him with an agility that would have had Aragorn nursing several broken bones at least. He was about to ask what of the rope when Haldir gave a brisk tug, and the length of it tumbled to his feet in a smooth coil.

Aragorn had no time to wonder at their evasion of a possibly fatal fall for his comrade was already setting off across the fields. It was pitch-dark, the ground sloping ever more steeply towards the river. Aragorn felt as if he were wading through a dark sea, the grass tall and bristling around his shoulders. The ground was invisible and wet underfoot. The crickets had gone silent, and the more they walked, the colder it grew though it was high summer. A chill fell on his heart. His steps faltered and slowed. He looked back.

The Stroke of Luck’s rear windows glowed, and beneath the very one he had just climbed from, he could see a horse, its coat so dark it looked black even now. It was standing with its neck arched towards the forest, and even at this distance, the gleam of its eyes could be seen, like pale coals.

Its rider, however, was watching the fields. Or might have been. The face was overshadowed by a deep hood, but Aragorn felt eyes, or a searching gaze without eyes feeling over the ground, searching for him.

That searching gaze plunged into the very marrow of his bones, and something vast and immeasurable like a wrack of dark clouds stretched over him, through him. Without knowing how he knew, Aragorn knew it sought him. The ring on his finger. The sword at his hip. The very blood, the ancient blood of Isildur, that beat in his veins. These things, it knew. These things, it would take from him. Against such a power, there was no strength great enough.

He stumbled and would have gone to his knees in the wet grass if a hard, warm hand had not clamped about his wrist and pulled. His limbs numb with cold, his mind fogged and heavy, he staggered through a grey fog, aware of only a sea of grass, rushing in his ears and the glitter of his comrade’s eyes, bright as stars, as they looked back towards the inn and the horror there.

Haldir whispered something too low for Aragorn to hear, something soft and strange, that ended with Elbereth.

Then the dark water pulled him down.


	3. Hunted Men

Aragorn woke, gasping, from a dream whose shadowy images slipped away like water through cupped hands though the horror, the sense of loss remained. He was lying on a grey cloak, beneath damp and uncomfortable planks that smelled vaguely of fish and mold. A dim, smoky light was falling on his face from a shelf above him. The little room where he lay had four walls of peeling, grey boards, no windows. The door was shut, a length of rope shoved beneath to prevent even a glimmer of light escaping.

Aragorn felt very sick, sweat all over him, and a hollowness gnawing under his ribs. He did not know what manner of creature he had encountered, and he was not sure what had frightened him more: the realization of its intentions or the familiarity of it. Something ancient and once-glorious. Something of a man.

He tried to sit up only to find his hands bound. This time, the silver knots did not give.

Other hands pressed on his shoulders, keeping him still.

“Alae, eria i fern,” said a wry voice close to his ear.

The light brightened so suddenly and sharply Aragorn had to squeeze his eyes shut.

“Tíro nin.”

With difficulty, Aragorn pried open his stinging eyes. Haldir took his chin hard between thumb and forefinger, the light of his eyes more painful and searching than the oil lamp on the floor between them. Aragorn fought to hold his gaze steady despite an overwhelming desire to blink and the wetness trailing down his cheeks. Whatever the Elf was searching for, he did not seem to find it. After a long moment, something in his face eased. He released Aragorn’s jaw and cut his bonds.

“Forgive the restraints,” he said in the common tongue, “I could not be certain what hold they had over you until you woke. But your eyes are clear. There is no darkness.”

Aragorn sat up gingerly, wiped his face and rubbed his wrists. “Pedich vae annúnaid.”

Haldir looked at him as if he thought Aragorn might be laughing at him. “It is a simple enough tongue to master, given time and desire. Simpler than Sindarin.”

Aragorn grinned shakily. “My mother told me the same thing. As a child, I stubbornly refused my Westron lessons. It seemed such a coarse language. I learned Sindarin before the common tongue. There was no need where I--”

Haldir held up a hand, palm outward, to dam the torrent, his expression one of mingled amusement and alarm. “You talk too much, Strider, and too incautiously. Have a care lest you say something you ought not. Even to me.”

“Forgive me. My tongue has a habit of wandering on when lost,” Aragorn said, irritated with himself and the use of a name not his own. “And yet I cannot regret it overmuch. A man tires of secrets, and at times, even a stranger can seem a worthy confidant.”

“A thousand years makes it no easier.”

There was nothing Aragorn could say to that save that he did not expect to live to see a hundred, much less a thousand, and that was too gloomy a thought to say aloud.

“You counsel caution whereas another might encourage me to unwary speech,” he said instead. “Whatever you say, I believe you a friend. Or I would like to.”

Rising, Haldir returned the oil lamp to its shelf, sending the spiders scuttling, and shifted aside a tangled net from one corner. With the edge of his knife, he pried up two of the floorboards which came loose as neatly as puzzle pieces. From the hole, he drew an oilcloth bag tied with twine. Untying the twine with care, he removed a thin wallet not unlike the one Aragorn himself carried in case of difficulties.

Inside was a leaf-wrapped cake and a small flask which he tossed into Aragorn’s lap. 

“Drink.”

A little warily, Aragorn took a sip from the flask, tasting a fresh liquid neither warm nor cold that drove away the chill from his limbs and heart. The cake was soft and golden-brown and tasted faintly sweet, but it restored his vigor better than the finest meal he had ever eaten at the inn. He had not even realized how hungry he had been until then.

While Aragorn ate, Haldir took up a larger flask and poured fresh water into a tin on the shelf. He kept his back to Aragorn as he rifled again through the oilcloth bag, but the unmistakable smell of athelas tingled through the air and drove away the last vestiges of the night’s horror and weariness. Aragorn sighed and let his muscles relax.

“It is strange. I remember only fleeing the inn. And then, a darkness, like wings. What was it? That creature on the black horse?” he asked, softly, but Haldir’s shoulders stiffened as if Aragorn had struck him with a brand. “I have never seen its like before.”

“And if you are very fortunate, you never will again. It is not well to speak of them now. The dark has ears.”

“You know them?”

“I know of them. It is enough. It is due to them you were…taken as you were. The sickness, the fear, the…dreams. They carry it with them like a poison. Do not ask me anymore.” 

Aragorn went quiet for a little. He knew when to leave a subject be. “I did not know athelas grew on this side of the mountains.”

“It grows near Loeg Ningloron, which your folk call the Gladden Fields. Where Isildur and his men camped along the river shores on their way home from the War.” To the Silvan Elves, there was only one War.

“An unexpected boon, nonetheless. Not the first I’ve had this night,” Aragorn murmured, tipping the flask against his mouth again. “Somehow I doubt those fellows we encountered will give up the hunt easily.”

Haldir acknowledged the change of subject with a nod. “The water meadows here will throw the Orcs off the scent, and their master is not overfond of running water. We are safe enough for now. Or, perhaps, you still believe I would lure you with a falsehood?”

Again, that strange, long smile, both mocking and self-deprecating.

“No. I do not think that,” Aragorn said. “In truth, I do not know what to think. I know very little of you and know better than to ask. I was sent to seek the truth of Dol Guldur and to find this man, this friend of my foster brother’s, if I could. What sort of man is this Nightingale? I confess I know little of him other than the tales.”

“Tales?”

“Not, generally, those one hears in the Hall of Fire in Imladris,” Aragorn said with a sideways grin. “Tales tell that the Nightingale was one of the few who slipped behind enemy lines and came nigh onto Dol Guldur itself only to vanish under the eyes of a half-score of Orcs scouring the woods for him. That he ran afoul of Haradrim mercenaries and escaped his bonds by dressing as one of their commanding officers. There are other, less flattering tales as well. I have heard that he has killed men who trusted him.”

In the dim light, Haldir’s eyes were hollows out of which gleamed a spark like the flash of mica in deep caverns. He did not quite look at Aragorn as he eased off his sword belt without setting it aside, his movements oddly stiff.

“A man must do what is necessary.”

“Yes. He must.” Aragorn placed the flask within his comrade’s reach. “You look tired, friend.”

With brisk efficiency, as if to deny Aragorn’s words, Haldir stripped off his surcoat and worn linen shirt and dipped his hands in the athelas-scented water, bathing his arms one after the other, from shoulder to the backs of his hands, scraping even under the fingernails. He laved his face and chest, snorting water from his nostrils. Gathering up the length of his hair in one fist, he drew his damp forearm across the back of his neck; the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms bunched like stones.

Ordinarily Aragorn would have laughed at such fastidiousness in the wilderness, but the merriment caught in his throat. The Elf’s body was a map of twisted roadways and white paths that followed the courses where blade or dart had carved into his flesh. There was even a star-shaped hole near the hollow of his hip that Aragorn suspected had been made by a fragment of molten steel such as the Enemy had flung upon the Alliance on the killing fields of the Dagorlad.

Of a sudden, he was aware of his own body filling the space of the shack, his breath and blood, his muscles that were still not quite the length and thickness of a man’s, his skin unblemished save for the scars that come with all childhoods. He was filled with tenderness for that other, torn body bared to him, vulnerable in its damage and yet impenetrable for the same. He wanted to rub his fingertips over those marks of violence until they were all smoothed away.

“You are staring again.”

Heat rose in Aragorn’s face, but he would not give himself away more than he had by looking elsewhere. “It is not easy to be a hunted man. To always fear the shadows. To never trust another even with your name. The pricking of your conscience over deeds you might have done or wished you hadn’t.” 

“There are ways to quiet those.” Haldir pulled his tunic over his head and rifled in his pack. Light splintered on a phial, a reddish-brown liquid tinting the sides. “As soon as it is fully light, we will make our way to the river. There is a boat there. We must make our way south.”

“What lies south?” Aragorn asked with a frown as Haldir mixed three drops from the phial in a tin mug and quaffed it at a swallow with scarce a wince for what must haven been a bitter taste, indeed. 

“Safety.”

“You are, perhaps, the most evasive man I have ever met,” Aragorn said. “Do you never answer a direct question?”

“I am not a Man at all.”

This dance between names and purposes and secrets was wearing. Aragorn had never had much cause to practice deception. He hated it, even when it was necessary. 

“You will laugh,” he said as the Elf stretched himself out on a ragged bedroll, “but when I was a small boy, I always imagined myself one of the knights of the High Days, a green switch for my sword. No evil could stand before me. No task was too great. The world was less daunting than I find it now.”

“You are a boy still,” replied the Elf, not unkindly. 

And what are you? Aragorn wanted to ask as he curled up in his cloak. A hero wanting silence? A traitor needing it?

“Let me tell you a story, boy, of the Nightingale. Perhaps, you have not heard it. He was in the desert far to the South, farther even than the rich fiefs of Gondor. There, the sun burns, bright and hot, but the nights are very cold. Men care for water more than gold. There are few women, but many tribes of men—nomads—who make their way across the desert, following shadow roads that can vanish under red sand at the toss of a wind. The Nightingale was parched from a long journey and a hard struggle through friendless lands. He begged these people for a little water, a night by their fire, and they granted him it for their customs forbids them to refuse a stranger aid if he asks.

There is little beautiful about the desert. But there was a young man, little more than a boy, whose duty it was to carry a water skin and distribute it evenly and without waste. He had thin wrists and strong fingers. You could see in his eyes how much he celebrated life, the way he held the flask, delicately yet with a quiet pride and joy. He was beautiful when he danced the water dance.”

Haldir’s face was utterly still, his eyes gazing far beyond the walls into some distant past, the grey irises absorbing all the light.

“There is much in this world that is fair. Many textures and tastes. When I was young as you, I wished to taste them all.”

“And now?” Aragorn asked, soft, fearful of breaking the enchantment, the images of the desert in his mind. Of a boy dancing for rain.

“And now…” Haldir smiled, but it was not his long, teasing smile nor an evasive one. It seemed almost sad. “And now…”

The heady perfume of athelas and laudanum drove away the fish and mold, and Aragorn found himself drifting out on the tide of Haldir’s voice, softer now, on another tale, drifting at times into the Sindarin tongue. The language of his childhood, the scents of comfort lulled him into dreams where no dark figures followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alae, eria i fern!— Behold, the dead rises. 
> 
> Tiro nin— Look at me
> 
> Pedich vae annúnaid- You speak the Westron tongue well.


	4. The Man of Many Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Edited September 21, 2012. My thanks to everyone who reads or reviews and who have already read and reviewed as well as Alex for betaing, no matter how long it took. The writing of this part lasted longer than I'd anticipated-as they tend to do-but it's been fun exploring Aragorn and Haldir in the earliest (alternative) days of their friendship.

It was early yet and raw when they arose and made their way down to the riverside. A boat awaited them, half-hidden amidst the rushes. Slipping into the bow, Aragorn shivered in the chill light and scanned the shore for signs of enemy scouts. But for the occasional stir beneath the water and the wavering cry of a heron, all was quiet.

Haldir cast off the painter, and with a surge and a splash of oars, they glided into the midst of the river, steering south.

The sun burned off the mist and transformed the river into glistening shards of green. Long, yellowed grasses and fields of iris undulated on the left bank while on the right, wet meadows climbed into marches of birch and oak.

Aragorn almost forgot their peril as the hours slipped away with no sign of Orcs or their dark master. He had journeyed on a river before, but the Bruinen was a creek compared to the Anduin's waters, and he delighted in the speed of their journey, his companion's skillful maneuvering around rocks and fallen tree limbs.

They did not speak much, Haldir's attention divided between river and boat, Aragorn's the banks, watching for movement that was not birds or deer. Silent exchanges were all that was needed: an apple halved and shared, a hand tapping a knee to point out the sleek movement of fish beneath the surface, quick smiles at the tug on the line that signaled a trout for the midday meal.

Towards dusk but still too early, darkness came with heavy shadows, clouds thick and bloated. A steep wind rose and whipped strands of hair against Aragorn's mouth and forehead. He looked west. Thunder crouched over the mountains.

Of a sudden, the boat bucked up underneath his seat, sending him scrabbling for a hold, his comrade's warning a shade belated. He gripped the wood bench tight, felt the brush of leaves skim over his nape and suddenly, they were sheathed in a green-shadowed tunnel, a sidestream he had not seen until they were inside it.

The current here was strong and swift, and Haldir did not fight it far before he brought the boat to the eastern bank. The western one curved up in a cliff and was crowned with nettles and hedges. They covered the boat with loose brush and set off into the woods.

Their fringe of forest was not very wide, petering out after a few hundred meters into flat plain, but north it extended into thick woods as far as Aragorn could see.

"We cannot cross the Celebrant here. It is too deep and swift-and there will be little in the way of shelter outside of rustic accommodations. My people have not dwelt in this part of the woods for many a long-year," Haldir told him as Aragorn fought to keep up with his strides. "We must try to get as far north as we can tonight, and pray that the mellyrn will spare us the worst of the weather and the Enemy's eyes."

As if to scorn his hopes, a torrent of wind poured through the branches, and a glare of light sheened the leaves silver. The report of thunder several heartbeats later rattled Aragorn's chest. The faint ticking on the leaves intensified.

Then the heavens opened.

Water poured from the clouds as if wrung by some massive hand, and they charged headlong into the gale, throwing up clots of leaves and water in their wake. They dodged around trees, heading as straight north as they could. Aragorn was blind with rain, able only to see his companion's bright hair, plastered dark against his neck. He followed so close, mud and water from his comrade's heels splashed on his shins.

Then Haldir vanished into the shelter of a trailing white willow.

Aragorn hesitated only a fraction before he plunged after him through the leaves.

Haldir wrung water from his hair and cloak and shook himself like a dog, spattering Aragorn though it hardly mattered. "We may shelter here for a little time until the worst passes."

"If this is shelter, then a sieve is a roof and four walls," Aragorn muttered as he selected a spot near the trunk where it was driest. The damp still seeped through his breeks.

The leaves of the willow turned with the wind, cloaking them in a shifting, whirling circumference of green and ivory. The undersides of the leaves were a shade of yellow so pale they took on the color of bone in the lightning-glare.

Despite the summer warmth, Aragorn shivered.

"In my country, it is considered ill-luck to shelter beneath willow trees. There is enchantment in them that is not always friendly."

Haldir lifted a corner of his lips. "The same might be said of men. Some are, some are not. This one is old."

"Older than you?"

"Not quite. But it has stood a long time, guarding the banks of the Celebrant from enemies and wearing. Now, it is old and tired and ill." The Elf's fingers splayed against the fissured trunk, tracing a watermark line like the weal of a wound. "It will not likely see another summer. It has not the strength for malice or mischief."

Aragorn looked at his comrade, at the white hand braced against the grey-brown trunk. Haldir's hair and face appeared almost transparent. In the storm light, amidst the darkened leaves, the grey eyes betrayed an unknowable and ancient weariness.

"Then I am sorry for such a loss. It is a beautiful tree."

"There are fewer beautiful things in this world now. Too many have gone." Haldir took his hand from the trunk and settled his back against the bole, drawing his sodden cloak about him as if for warmth.

Outside their scant shelter, the rain drummed steadily, and each turned inward to his own thoughts. Aragorn thought longingly of his home, of a soft bed and clean sheets, of dry feet and a pipe to smoke in comfort. He thought of Arwen's smile, but his usual vision did not comfort him as much as before; it seemed dimmer somehow as if swathed in a film of dust. He glanced at Haldir whose eyes were far away. Did he, too, long for such things? As accustomed as he seemed to a rough and wild life, did he not wish at times for the comfort of home, wherever that was?

Up near the trunk a few meters above their heads, a butterfly flapped its wings, a shade of purple so profound they looked ebony.

"It is a monarch," Haldir said, following Aragorn's gaze.

"Seldom have I seen such a shade, even in the gardens of Imladris," Aragorn said.

"They are rare in these forsaken days and most often go cloaked. You see how dark are the wings on the outside?"

Aragorn nodded but said nothing.

"How many seasons have you seen, Strider?" Haldir asked with the air of one who has pondered the question for some time. "You look slender as an oak sapling just dropping acorns. But, perhaps, I err, and your roots go deeper."

"I marked my twentieth year in the spring," Aragorn said with not a little pride. "By my own people's measure, I am a Man in my own right."

"There are apricots on the banks of this river that have more to show for their years than you."

"So it is with Men," Aragorn said, raking his knuckles over the damningly meager bristles at the upper corners of his lips. He had been reminded all too often of his youth and inexperience and the unworthiness of both. "Some do not attain their full growth until a few years after they have come to manhood."

If Haldir noticed his tone, he did not show it. "In some countries in the South, Men mark their wisdom and their virility in their whiskers. Is it so with the Dúnedain?"

Unknowing, Haldir had struck upon a sore point. There were many amongst the Dúnedain who, though they had paid all due lip service at the proclamation of their new chieftain, did not believe him fit for the task. Too young and untried, they said. Too long coddled by the Elves. Unworthy.

Resentment sharpened the edge of his tongue though he knew Haldir was not to blame for it. "If whiskers are the measure of a man's virility, you, my friend, must be sorely lacking."

"Insolent pup. What know you of my virility?" The Elf rolled the ultimate 'r' with distinctly Silvan condescension, but his eyes glinted. "I would wager you are not even bedded yet."

Aragorn felt the heat rise in his neck and face and did not answer in the vain hope that silence would be taken for seemly modesty instead of unseemly cowardice. It was not that he did not long for such an experience. There had never been opportunity. No woman could he pursue for he desired only one. No Elf or Man either. For what Elf of Imladris would take to bed the ward of the Lord's house? What chieftain could beg a night's venture of one of his Rangers without sacrificing his dignity and their already-tenuous respect?

"I am not." He met the Elf's eyes, daring him to laugh.

To his surprise, Haldir did nothing of the sort. "I was near forty-five and nigh mad with desperation ere I met someone willing enough to lay me. You have time yet." He laughed at himself, the youth he had been.

"Who was it?" Aragorn asked, somewhat mollified, and unable to imagine Haldir in any way desperate. Even in the presence of the Tower's dark horsemen, he had been defiant when Aragorn had been terrified.

"A wanderer. Long ago." He did not say more though the clarity of the memory lent his face a softness most unexpected in one so stern. Then the sharp eyes turned on him. "What of you? I have never known a young man who was not in love at one time or another."

"I-" Aragorn stammered, caught off-guard. But speaking of Arwen here seemed ill to him for a reason he could not explain. As if it would destroy his guarded hopes for her or something even more fledgling and fragile.

He drew his knees up to his chest and draped his arms about them as if to safeguard a vulnerable part of himself that threatened to break free. "No. There is no one."

To his relief, Haldir did not press him.

Eager to soothe the bite of exposure and encouraged by his companion's uncharacteristic inclination towards speech, Aragorn scrambled for other words. "You are not wed?"

"I fear my ways would have long surpassed the bounds of a wife's forbearance." The words were clearly meant in jest, but Aragorn could not help hearing the tinge of regret in the Elf's voice.

"You are not lonely?"

The silence lasted so long Aragorn began to fear he had tried his new companion too sorely.

"The time has passed when I would seek the life that others lead," Haldir said at last, his voice almost drowned by fading thunder. "Not for me, the embrace of a wife, the fathering of a child, the quietude of harp and garden. It has been long and long since I expected or desired companionship. Of any sort. After a time, loneliness becomes a way of life. How otherwise when a moment's inattention might prove our undoing?"

Catching Aragorn's look, he grimaced. "Forgive me. My tongue is prone to such maudlin wanderings when it rains as this. It never rained on the Dagorlad."

"It seems we wanderers are prone to doomed fates." Moved by a feeling of kinship and sympathy, Aragorn laid a hand on the Elf's crooked knee. "I would that it were not so. Surely though there is some small comfort in knowing you have done your duty?"

"You are young yet. You will learn," Haldir said, staring out at the rain. "Thankless and perilous is the life of a wanderer. A life of shadows and secrets. Often, in vain. Year after year, our efforts are undone by a world changing only for the worse. A spark amidst darkness is only a spark. It burns but a little while before it goes out."

"Yet even a spark can kindle a flame," Aragorn said, his grip tightening with his conviction and the reminder of his youth.

Haldir glanced at Aragorn's hand as if only now aware of it. The intensity of that gaze crackled all the way up from palm to shoulder and settled with a peculiar glow in the pit of Aragorn's stomach.

"You should have been called 'Estel,' Strider."

The receding wind drew all the breath from their little shelter as the wolf-grey eyes lifted, bored into his as if expecting something of him. Aragorn's heart thumped with confusion and a painful longing to be rid of all secrets between them.

"Who is the Nightingale, Haldir?"

He could not have made a graver error if he had accidentally plunged a dagger between the Elf's ribs.

Abruptly Haldir stood, dislodging Aragorn's hand. His crown brushed the undersides of the low branches, and he seemed suddenly tall, filling the small space. His expression, what little of it Aragorn could make out in the dim light, had regained its stony composure, tinged with what might have been self-recrimination. All traces of his former humor had vanished: concealed behind armor forged by years of deliberate vigilance.

"The storm has passed. We should press on."

The common tongue clanged against Aragorn's ears. He had not noticed they had been speaking in Sindarin.

Without another word, Haldir brushed aside the leafy tendrils and ducked out into the rain, leaving Aragorn, cold and shaken, in the shadows of the willow.

\----------

An eerie fog hung over the Celebrant in the wake of the storm as if the forest had taken a wound and sought now to conceal itself. Lapping at their shoulders, it dewed their cloaks and shrouded the undergrowth in ghostly light. The tang of raw earth and iron haunted the air.

Aragorn shivered. Oppressed by the unnaturalness of the weather and Haldir's silence, he trailed a few lengths behind. A greyness had settled in his chest, a sense that he had lost himself somewhere, and every step only led into further entanglements. He wanted sunlight and a clear path before his feet. But ahead lay only a sense of foreboding.

A chill breathed against the exposed skin of his hands and nape, and his eye registered two things before his mind caught up.

The first: there was movement on the fringe of the trees where there had been none before.

The second: he was alone. Haldir had vanished.

Aragorn stopped, his heart hammering.

Mist swirled thick around him and with it returned the cold, creeping chill he had first felt outside the Luck. The vast hollowness inside the fog sharpened the creak of horn bows as the Orcs stepped from their concealment in the brush. Half a dozen: strong and broad.

One, bigger and broader than the lot with a face like pitch and slitted yellow eyes swaggered forward to just outside sword's reach and addressed Aragorn.

"Hullo, my lad." As if he and Aragorn were chance-met travelers on the same road.

Aragorn's sword hissed from its sheath.

"Now, now, there's no need for that," the Orc said though his eyes narrowed amusedly at the half-length of Narsil. "Not that you could do much with a broken bit of steel like what that is."

"I assure you, it is sharp enough to pierce your hide should you try me, Orc," Aragorn answered, relieved that his voice did not quaver.

The Orc scratched his chin with nails longer than Aragorn's smallest finger. "You're a bold one, so you are. Even outdone five to one. I like that. So, answer nicely, bold one, and maybe we'll set off on our business and leave you to yours. Where's the Elf?"

"Elf?" Aragorn asked with careful neutrality. "I know nothing of an Elf." It was true enough.

"He lies," hissed a skinny Orc with large, lantern-like eyes and snuffling nostrils. "The stink is all over him."

"Come now." If the Orc-leader could have sweetened his tone to wheedling, he would have. "If you tell us where he's hared off to, things'll go all the easier for you. If not…"

Aragorn was no fool.

They would not let him go, regardless of what he told them. He knew enough of Orcs to know that. Blood-thirst shone in their eyes, and they were inching closer.

"I know not where he has gone. He left," Aragorn said. He could not quite disguise the bitterness in his words. Where had Haldir disappeared to?

"Left you, did he? Typical." The Orc leader shook his head, tsking, as if he found this state of affairs unbearable. "Just like ole Merlin to leave a friend in a fix. Slicker than a weasel in a rabbit's den, that one."

"I know no one named Merlin," Aragorn said, taking a careful step back.

"He's got more than one name," the Orc said with a hint of impatience and a look in his eye that said Aragorn had not fooled him. "And he led us quite a merry dance. Yours won't be the first corpse we've had to step over to get to him. Or, maybe we could show you a bit of hospitality, take you back to the Tower. The Boss has special treatment for those who consort with the Witch's little birds and conspire against Him. Likes to wring their necks, he does. Course the Boss might very well ask what a boy bearing a broken sword and a dead Elf-king's ring is doing wandering in His realm."

"This is not His realm."

"Enough chatter," the tracker snarled, unsheathing a rusty-looking dagger. "Let me tickle him with this, Chief. I'll make him tell us if I have to peel the flesh from his bones to do it."

The Orc-leader shoved the tracker and sent him sprawling amidst the tree roots. "What's Merlin to you, anyway, lad? Look what he's done. Left you in the lurch and all. He doesn't care what happens to you."

"I have told you all I-" Aragorn got no farther as the two Orcs that had been creeping up to flank him lunged.

One got a grip on Narsil and twisted Aragorn's wrist viciously until he released the blade with a cry while the other drove a fist hard into Aragorn's stomach, folding his knees under him. Pain tore through his lungs, and tears stung his eyes as he fought for breath. Clawed hands grasped his arms and wrenched them up so hard behind his back, the sockets strained audibly.

Aragorn twisted despite the pain, and one of his captors set a knee to his spine, crushing the rest of the breath from his lungs with sheer weight. The other took his head and slammed it into the ground until he stopped struggling, then twice more for good measure. Dizzy, his mouth full of dirt and blood, Aragorn lay still with the grit in his teeth and his heart pounding against his ears.

Warmth trickled down his face from his nose, and the steel taste strengthened, but he lifted his head as best he could and gazed back into the Orc leader's eyes as the Orc knelt beside him.

Aware for the first time in his life that he was like to die, he did not feel afraid. An odd calm had stolen over him. His mind was white and smooth. His fingertips tingled under the Orcs' tight grip.

The Orc-leader shook his head. "Foolish boy. One of you get a bit of rope to bind this one with."

Aragorn scarce heard him. His eye had fallen on the tracker next to him who had yet to rise from where his Chief had flung him. The head was tilted back at a strange angle. The shadows of ferns made a long, ragged line across his throat.

Breath came surging back into his lungs.

"You do not know your peril, dog of Sauron," he rasped.

The Orc-leader's lazy grin froze in an ugly rictus, all the false levity stripped away, but a few of his men, including Aragorn's handlers, glanced up uneasily at the trees as if expecting the branches to come down on their heads.

The Orc on Aragorn's right followed his gaze and started.

"Look at ole Murag! Deader than last autumn's leaves."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he fell back with a howl, blood dripping down his wrist. Shaking off his loosened hold, Aragorn snatched Narsil from the ground and plunged it pointfirst into the Orc still holding onto his shoulder. Narsil's edge bit deep, grating against bone, and the Orc released him with a hideous yell.

Then the leader was on him with a bloodcurdling snarl, seizing him round the throat and bearing him to the ground. They fell heavily, Aragorn clutching Narsil tight in his fist. The Orc's claws gripped his throat like a vice and squeezed. Narsil shuddered, nearly jerking out of Aragorn's hand as something wrenched at it. Abruptly, the Orc's claws loosened.

Gasping, Aragorn opened his eyes to find the Orc-leader's face inches from his own, fangs still bared in an ugly snarl. But the yellow eyes were glazed. Narsil's tip protruded from his back.

The mist swirled, thick and dense, as if caught up in the throes of the violence. Other cries and curses split the air with the song of steel. At the sight of their fallen leader, the two surviving Orcs turned and fled, limping for the plain beyond the wood.

With difficulty, Aragorn wrestled the Orc's corpse off him and staggered to his feet. He was drenched in sweat and shaking. Narsil was crimson to the hilt and wet with blood. He looked at it, amazed.

Rough hands seized him from behind and spun him around.

Narsil lurched to a halt in midair, suspended by an iron grip on Aragorn's sword wrist.

Haldir stared at him over the length of bloodied steel. His hands and face too were streaked with gore, but his eyes glowed with a fierce light. His stained saber hung from his hand.

Stunned, Aragorn stared at him, Narsil and the enemy forgotten, until Haldir cuffed him hard enough to bring him back to his senses.

"Move, fool. There will be others. And their Master will not be far though he cannot enter the Wood."

They fled to the edge of the Celebrant. Aragorn took one look at the swirling, grey water and recoiled, but Haldir thrust him forward.

"Swim or your life."

The shocking chill seeped into every inch of his skin and tortured his already aching lungs as he plunged in. His boots scrabbled against loose stone and grit then left the bottom entirely, all the weight in his arms as he thrashed, the current tugging at his knees. Just at the moment he feared he could not drag his body another inch, and he would be swept away, his boots sank into mud. With a heave and rush, water streaming from his hair and clothes, filling his boots with cold muck, he staggered up onto the eastern bank and collapsed in the weeds.

"Get up. You cannot lie here."

When he could not summon the strength to move, wet hands snared his collar and hauled him bodily to his feet.

"On your feet, Dúnadan. We are not out of the thorns yet."

Aragorn had only a dim recollection of their flight deeper into the woods, of hauling himself grimly hand over hand up a grey rope ladder, all feeling gone from his fingers, moving on instinct alone. When he felt sturdy platform under him, he stretched out with his cheek pressed against wooden boards, breathing in their damp and relishing the throb of his heart against their roughness.

At length, he lifted his head.

They were on a flet of sorts though Aragorn had seldom seen such in Imladris outside of guard outposts. It was little more than a platform of grey boards with a hole in the center where they had come up. The rope ladder was piled against the trunk, and a screen was fastened on one side to keep off the worst of the wind.

A little ways away, Haldir crouched over a brazier, fumbling with cold, wet fingers to light it. Even after he managed to coax the coals to flames, his hands continued to shake. Hard and rigid like a man who has taken a blow to the gut from an unexpected quarter and does not yet know whether he will die of it or not.

Aragorn looked away, out over the wood, now wholly bereft of mist, until he heard the Elf rifling through supplies under the screen.

A rug landed at his feet, startling him.

"Get out of those wet things. The wind is in the east tonight. You will chill."

He dragged himself up and skinned out of his clothes, careful not to look at anything but the floor. He had never before been shy about removing his clothing though usually he was alone or amongst his brothers when he did so. But this time he felt as if he were removing armor though jerkin and tunic and breeches had offered no protection against the water and would not have against Orc swords or that dark creature from the Tower.

He snatched up the rug and wrapped it gratefully around his shoulders. It fell to his ankles and, though crafted of light-spun wool, was surprisingly warm. It quelled the shivers wracking him.

Scooting back from the edge of the flet, he sat against the trunk of the mallorn and tucked his knees up against his chin as if he could hold in that part of him that struggled to burst free. Though warming, he still felt sick and cold. He had not thought that it would be like this. He had known of peril, of course. That he would be hunted wherever he went. That his life would be running. He had not thought it would happen so soon. He had not thought to escape death and still feel as if he were dying.

A shadow stooped over him, and he flinched as a wooden bowl of hot, sweet-scented water was set down near his leg.

"Are you hurt?"

Aragorn drew away from the hand that attempted to lift his chin. "No."

Dried blood crusted his nails and the lines of his knuckles. He submerged both hands in the bowl, careless of the heat. When he had bathed them, he dipped a rag into the water and wiped Narsil thoroughly from pommel to tip again and again and again. He was not satisfied. Blood was corrosive to steel. If he did not get it all off, it would eat away the metal. It would…

Haldir's hands closed around his, gently but firmly, stilling his movements.

"It is done. Let it rest."

"They were not hunting me," Aragorn said, allowing Haldir to coax the blade to the ground. He searched the Elf's face as if to read the answers to this riddle in the shadows of those grey eyes. "You lied to me, friend. Merlin, the Orc called you. Merlin. Merilin. Nightingale."

Haldir looked him in the face and said nothing.

"You would rather strip yourself to the skin and bare your scars to me, than tell me the truth."

"Do you remember," Haldir said slowly, sitting beside him and drawing his own cloak about his shoulders, "the boy I spoke of to you? The one who danced for water?"

"What of him?"

"His family were nomads as I said. They knew every pathless road that would keep a man from death in the desert. They valued other things beyond gold: water, peace, friendship, trust. Names. They had enemies. Allies of the Dark Lands, who wished to know their secrets. Emissaries had come often to the chieftain. One night, when they came, they found a fugitive amidst them. One who had escaped their nets before. The family hid him even when the emissary threatened them with death. They put the chieftain and his men to the sword. They dragged the women from their homes and violated them before their children. Those who tried to hide were caught and taken away. An entire tribe reduced to nothing but cold sand and stone for the sake of one man's trust."

"I'm sorry."

"What good does 'sorry' do me now? I told you nothing because there was nothing you needed to know. It was better, safer for us both if you did not."

Neither of them spoke again. Aragorn felt words of gratitude, of apology and self-reproach on the edge of his lips from time to time, but somehow the murky half-light made speech an unnecessary burden on the air between them.

"I gave you the only name that mattered," Haldir said, relenting. "Besides, if anyone has a grievance, it is I. 'Strider' was not the name I was given."

"We feared messages to be intercepted. The sons of Elrond could not be plainer."

"I received no such message. It was the Lady Arwen who bade me, before I departed, to keep watch for a comely, coltish lad of twenty, bearing a broken sword and an ancient ring. And an utter inability to believe that the world is as dark and cruel as it is."

Aragorn felt heat rush to his face though whether of indignation or embarrassment, he could not say. "'Coltish?'"

Haldir smiled, but it was not a mocking smile. It transformed his face into one almost of gentleness.

"I have never felt so far from her," Aragorn murmured, rubbing the wool between his fingers. "I would that I could be the man that she desires."

"We are shadows both, you and I."

Aragorn looked up and met the Elf's gaze with difficulty in the dim light. They were touching at knees, forearms, shoulders without either commenting on the arrangement. "I would thank you for what you have done for me, but a part of me fears to. You are pricklier than any nettle."

To Aragorn's astonishment, the Elf burst into blithe refrain:

"Tender-handed stroke a nettle,

And it stings you for your pains.

Grasp it like a man of mettle

And it soft as silk remains."

Something hard and tight eased in his chest even as the air between them thickened. He was suddenly very aware of Haldir's eyes, that they had absorbed something from the brazier's flame. Aragorn could not bear the burning in them.

Strange, he thought, how easy it was to lean across those few inches between them and nestle his face amidst hair that still smelled of the river. He told himself it was the dark, the battle, the fact that they were alive that allowed him this silent voicing of longing. The desire for solace and solicitude. He felt half-asleep as he nosed the pale strands aside, his mouth following a tendon from jaw to collarbone where it was warm. He could taste the other's heartbeat like wine.

"Soft," he murmured, "I think not."

Haldir drew back a little. "I am not of that feather who would demand thanks in such a fashion. You are not a lover of men."

"As you yourself have said, you are no Man."

They could give this to each other, at least, this small part of themselves.

Aragorn kissed the grey eyes closed, following an increasingly supine path of scars with mouth and tooth and tongue, tasting salt and the bitterness of defeat and here and there in the crook of an elbow, the hollow of a rib, a small and hard-won victory.

Haldir rested a hand on Aragorn's nape under his hair, loose but for the fingertips, as if even now he half-expected betrayal in this closest of quarters. Even in this act, he was evasive, soundless, save at the very end: a rush of breath expelled and cut off. As if even that gave too much of him away.

Aragorn wanted to say something, but he found himself summarily pinned against the floorboards, pressed into darkness and dust and consumed by the hunger of a ravenous ghost. Haldir's mouth made him disappear, and his sure touch made Aragorn's body give up all its secrets.

At his greatest urgency, Aragorn clutched hard and felt something break the surface in his chest. His eyes were wet at the corners from shutting them so tightly. Haldir never spoke a word or asked for an explanation Aragorn could not give, just cradled him, his hands carding through Aragorn's hair, his voice a meaningless but comforting murmur until sleep fell over them.

As the first light of false dawn tinged the mellyrn leaves and dappled on his face, Aragorn woke. He turned over on his side and laid a hand on the pale expanse of back beside him, tracing the thews rising under warm skin, just to feel a path. He felt lost and found, somehow, and marveled that he could feel such things at once.

Haldir stirred, his shoulders tensing, and Aragorn withdrew his hand.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

With a sigh, Haldir turned to his back and laced his hands behind his head. The shadows of leaves washed over his face like a sheaf of water.

"No matter. It will soon be dawn."

Dawn. And departure. Aragorn could hear it in Haldir's voice.

"I do not know how to do this," he murmured.

"Do what?"

"This. All of it."

"You will do it. Because you must. Because no one else will."

"I would stay," Aragorn said, voicing aloud a thought he had not meant to speak aloud. "I could learn much from you."

He knew without having to look at Haldir what his answer would be.

"There is much I could teach you. But where I go now, you cannot follow. Not yet."

When the light broadened, they rose and dressed, walking side by side to the edge of the wood. Aragorn's heart was somehow both light and heavy as he turned to his companion.

Haldir eyed his outstretched hand a moment before clasping it hard in a warrior's grip. "I hate goodbyes."

"Then I will not give you one in hopes that we may yet meet again without secrets between us. Good hunting, Haldir."

"Good hunting. Aragorn."

Aragorn looked back once, but the dense foliage had already closed upon the Nightingale. Shafts of sunlight streamed down into the empty wood, the clatter of doves' wings rising into the clear, white morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Thanks to all who read and review! I would love to hear what you thought, in particular since it's been awhile since I've gone back so far in Aragorn and Haldir's history. The little rhyme of Haldir's I must acknowledge as an old English traditional song and not of my crafting. See you down the road!
> 
> Best,  
>  Marchwriter


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